July 7, 1976 — McGonagall Manor

She was running across fresh blades of grass: the sun beating down on her back, her muscles flexing with each leap she made — paws pounding against the ground, tail tense. She could scent the earthy tang of the rabbit, could almost see the blood pumping through its veins — rich and fragrant.

Her mind was blank, thoughts only of the thrill of the chase permeating through the haze that had consumed her.

She lunged, heart pounding with anticipation —

She was thrown back: bonds surrounding her, tight over her body. She thrashed for a moment, blind with anger and fear, before some rationality returned and she stilled, seeing her Master's worried face above her, her graceful hands untying the ropes.

A whine tore from her throat as she was freed, and she struggled to calm herself for the transformation — adrenaline still pumping through her, the fox's senses on high alert.

"There you are," came Minerva's voice as she returned to her human form — thankfully clothed, and with her wand tightly gripped in her hand.

"I'm sorry," she spoke, regaining her breath.

"Don't be: you're learning. It's all about control," Minerva spoke, her loose hair tousled by the summer breeze. "The animal within pulls at you, fights you, even. Do not blame it — it cannot govern its instincts. But you can."

Cassiopeia closed her eyes for a moment. "I'm trying to, but I can't."

"Try again."

"I almost killed it," she said, her tone angered. The animal had long since fled, but she couldn't shake the image from her mind.

"But you did not. And even if that had happened, it would not have been your fault. Would you blame a fox for feeding as it can?"

She pursed her lips, leaving the question unanswered. "How long did it take you?"

"Until I stopped chasing every mouse I saw, you mean?" the older witch asked, her voice mild. "Months — maybe even more. Don't be discouraged."

"I hate the feeling."

She did, with every fibre of her being. She loved her transformation, loved the animal she became. But the utter lack of command that it brought - whenever the fox's instincts kicked in - had shattered the joy, the wonder of her transformation.

Especially with no improvement, after days — weeks, now — spent practicing.

"I won't say that I enjoyed it either," Minerva conceded. "The unpredictability can be disarming."

"I — " she had no words to express the feeling.

"I understand. Take the time you need."

"I will get it. Soon."

"Of course."

July 10, 1976 — Déchant Townhouse

While she had never gotten the impression that Cailean was particularly wealthy, walking into his house it was clear he was not struggling for money. While not nearly as opulent as the Malfoys' manor, the house was nonetheless decorated beautifully — rich, caramel wood floors and pieces, paired with creamy white walls, and splashes of bright lavender splattered throughout: every room filled with clear, natural right flowing through the windows.

"I wanted things to change a little, after my mother signed the house to me. It used to be awfully dark in here, depressing."

"Did you do it yourself? It's beautiful," she asked, and he turned to her — seeming a little surprised.

"I did, actually — thank you. It's a bit of a side passion, outside healing."

She smiled, nerves starting to ripple within her. "You have a talent, then."

"You're too kind," he replied dismissively, though he seemed to appreciate the words. "Now tell me, could I interest you in some tea?"

He disappeared into the kitchen, and she took the moment alone to calm down. She didn't know why she was so nervous, but her entire body felt tightly-wound — her face hot and flushed, and her hands trembling slightly.

It was almost debasing — comparable to the feelings Aurora had described when she'd first grown interested in Augustus. An uncontrollable, childish impulse.

"You really needn't be so tense," Cailean interrupted her train of thought, his voice light as he set down a painted teacup in front of her. "I realise that's much easier said than done, but I don't want you to be nervous around me. Act as you wish, and say what you will. I'd like to get to know you more."

She made a sound of dissent, her a little of her apprehension was nonetheless calmed by his soothing tone. "I'm afraid there's not much of interest to me."

"That's absurd, and you know it," he said with surety, taking a sip of his tea. "I wouldn't have invited you if I thought you uninteresting. Your discussion of rituals, for example, I will admit sparked my curiosity."

"It's…" she smiled in acknowledgement, "… a bit of a side interest as well. Truly, I just enjoy that level of power — how clean and raw it feels. It's so unlike the magic performed by a wand."

"Of course," he replied. "I would not say I am usually one for disregarding the rules, but in this regard I have little care for what the Ministry decides. The rites are a scared tradition."

"Do you care much, then, for preserving the customs of our kind?" she asked, cautious. Usually this kind of talk, of tradition and of rites, correlated heavily with the worst kinds of people — older Slytherins, in her experience, who wished to return to the glory of the past. The likes of the Dark Lord, who gained a crazed air when he spoke of wizardkind's decline.

"It's... not a great priority of mine, but I do find the endeavour to be at least somewhat valuable. But if you mean — am I against integrating Muggles and their customs into our society? — then no, not at all."

"I won't admit that not heartening to hear."

He nodded. "We hear news every week, in France, of what's going on here — of the attacks. I'm not completely ignorant."

"Besides," he smiled, "If I was so completely a traditionalist, I wouldn't have much to gain. An arranged marriage, for one, and the expectation that I involve myself in state affairs, beside a plethora of others. I'll admit I'm not much of one for politicking."

"Here we differ," she murmured, taking a sip of tea. "There is something about the power of words — to convince, to compel — that is utterly alluring."

"Perhaps so," he replied. "At least there is always something... entrancing... in listening to others speak of their passions," he added, his gaze intent.

She was not sure what compelled her to speak, in the tense moment that followed. "You glow, almost... ethereal, when you discuss your work."

"Your eyes grow bright. Lively."

She was unsure how it happened, that in one moment she was staring into the silver of his irides, daring not to breathe, and in the second he had leaned over her, his hand cupping her jaw, his face just millimetres from hers.

Utterly enthralled, she tilted her head towards him, and he took the invitation. Warm, full lips brushed hers once, twice — not insistent, but firm, and his fingers tangled in her hair, the pressure a respite from the sensation that threatened to swallow her whole.

He broke away after a moment, his breath a little heavier, but otherwise unaffected. She didn't know what to do — fighting not to let her gaze drop to the floor, embarrassment and fear overwhelming her.

"Haven't done this before?" he asked, reassuring. She gave a nod, and he murmured his understanding.

"I don't regret it," he said, after a moment of quiet. "In case you were wondering."

How he always seemed to know what she was thinking, she did not know.

"I don't either," she replied, her heart hammering.

"Good. I'm glad."

"Could I — again?"

She wanted to bring him close, to tangle his shirt in her hands, to feel his lips on hers, insistent and strong. He had been gentle, but she wanted more.

"Of course, Cassiopeia. Far be it from me to deny you."

Later on they sat on the same sofa, not cuddling, but close — their fingers intertwined.

"I don't want to lead you astray," Cailean spoke, his breath warm against her skin.

"I have no expectations of this extending further," she replied, her tone even.

While her heart still fluttered with nervousness, she had lost a good deal of her shame somewhere in between the ten and eleventh meeting of their lips, when her hands had wandered down the smooth plane of his chest, tracing at the leather of his belt — her actions guided more by instinct than rationale.

"And neither do I have them of you. But, until I leave, I am… very open, to whatever you may wish of me."

It was the best answer she could have hoped for, as she attempted to unravel the feelings swirling through her mind, to understand this newfound tightness in her chest.

"I'm not sure — I don't think there's love in this."

She wanted to be clear, she didn't want to hurt him.

"Who says there has to be?" came his answer, before he leaned over to her, quelling any response as his teeth grazed her lips, his tongue ravaging her mouth.

•••

My greatest apologies for the length of the chapter — I've found myself recently without even a moment to write. I promise to make this up to you in next week's chapter, but I hope that for now you will be content.